know my Daughter?

_Har_. There he is again with his damn'd hard Questions.
--Know her, Sir,--Why--you were walking abroad one day.

_Doct_. My Daughter never goes abroad, Sir, farther than our Garden.

_Har_. Ay, there it was indeed, Sir,--and as his Highness was taking a
Survey of this lower World--through a long Perspective, Sir,--he saw you
and your Daughter and Neice, and from that very moment fell most
desperately in love.--But hark, the sound of Timbrels, Kettle-Drums and
Trumpets.--The Emperor, Sir, is on his way, prepare for his Reception.

[_A strange Noise is heard of Brass Kettles, and Pans,
and Bells, and many tinkling things_.

_Doct_. I'm in a Rapture--How shall I pay my Gratitude for this great
Negotiation?--but as I may, I humbly offer, Sir.
[_Presents him with a rich Ring and a Purse of Gold_.

_Har_. Sir, as an Honour done the Emperor, I take your Ring and Gold. I
must go meet his Highness.
[_Takes leave_.

_Enter to him_ Scaramouch, _as himself_.

_Scar_. Oh, Sir! we are astonish'd with the dreadful sound of the
sweetest Musick that ever Mortal heard, but know not whence it comes.
Have you not heard it, Sir?

_Doct_. Heard it, yes, Fool,--'tis the Musick of the Spheres, the
Emperor of the Moon World is descending.

_Scar_. How, Sir, no marvel then, that looking towards the South, I saw
such splendid Glories in the Air.

_Doct_. Ha, saw'st thou ought descending in the Air?

_Scar_. Oh, yes, Sir, Wonders! haste to the old Gallery, whence, with
the help of your Telescope, you may discover all.

_Doct_. I would not lose a moment for the lower Universe.

_Enter_ Elaria, Bellemante, Mopsophil, _dressed in rich Antick Habits_.

_Ela_. Sir, we are dress'd as you commanded us, what is your farther
Pleasure?

_Doct_. It well becomes the Honour you're design'd for, this Night to
wed two Princes--come with me and know your happy Fate.

[_Ex_. Doctor _and_ Scar.

_Ela_. Bless me! My Father, in all the rest of his Discourse shows so
much Sense and Reason, I cannot think him mad, but feigns all this
to try us.

_Bell_. Not mad! Marry, Heavens forbid, thou art always creating Fears
to startle one; why, if he be not mad, his want of Sleep this eight and
forty hours, the Noise of strange unheard of Instruments, with the
fantastick Splendour of the unusual Sight, will so turn his Brain and